you said you’d stick by me
thats what you would say when you’d leave
but i always trusted you
cause i had nothing left to lose

every night i waited for you
restless nights just for you
always thought you’d come back
you are the thing that i lack

i understand you only want me when you’re lonely
when the other girls don’t seem to care

then you come back for a brief moment
my only wish is for that moment to last
for it to last an eternity

but you always seem to disappear
and what hurts is that you do it carelessly

Anything can
look like a poem
and sound philosophical
simply by moving
the words on
different lines.

Am I doing it right?
Is this
really
talent?
Art?
Effort?

I think I am trying.
Really, I am
I go back and change the order
and I break lines
where it sounds right
But it does not take me long.
Not at all.

I try to be
intentional
and call it natural rhythm.
Instinct and style taking over
I alternate between
agonizing every detail
like When to Capitalize
and publishing free form poems without looking over them twice.

How is writing supposed to feel?
Should I labor?
or should it flow?
Or do I get to decide?

I think the things I talk of
mean something
at least.

But am I just
pretentious?

fooling myself into thinking that
using common poetry formats
somehow makes my work worthwhile?

explore me softly
with pruned fingers, after a bath
trace my veins, blue eyelids
purple tinted lips
bite my chest, skin
press the bruises on my knees
explore me intensely
explore me at all
we are still strangers, and i am wondering if i will ever become familiar to myself
but i will trace your bones with my tongue
and enjoy the gentle aggressive soft hard touch of familiarity that i've never known

I think I'm too empty to properly deal with this heartbreak
i'll take it for now because I'm sure a lack of feeling helps
(it's 4:17am, i feel nothing)
just heaviness behind my eyes, weight on my shoulders
I should lose a few pounds,
feel lighter
feel anything

Rusted ringlets hang
Precariously pouring out
Of a metallic scrunchy.
I can’t keep myself
From glancing intermittently
At the slight glisten
Of a cocktail
On her cupid’s bow,

Then, a few inches below,
Her taut neck,
A small piece of cloth grasping
Its sculpted edges
Begging the question
How it would feel
To cup her face
With fingers embellished
By cheap and chipping paint?

Would she settle there,
A placid pool of profundity?
Or would she seep between
The cracks of my fingers
Unable to be contained
By such a simple stranger?

She adorned the corner
Of the couch
With such grace.
It was breathtaking,
As she spoke in rhythms
Lining the crests of her intonation,
Hazel flashes kept tempo,
A conversation shifting in tandem.
Poetry in motion.

I will allow the skeletons to parade up and down this boulevard;
and walk away from this window in hopes of rain.

it's a hot day
in mid-December
as well
the world
(as we know it)
has gone
even more
topsy-turvy

Decembers used to be cold
like heartbreak after a date
or a cold shower at 4 a.m.

there isn't much around
besides the ceiling, the floor,
and the four walls that confine me
while the not-so-soothing sounds
of motorcycles pass by
my cage with silver bars
that i like to call my house

i miss you
and the summer's warmth
you bring when nights are cold
and the October breeze you have
when the days are hot